“I’ll be right back,” Rory said. She pushed through the swinging door. She couldn’t let Isabel get away with this.
“Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?” she asked as soon as she and Isabel were alone in the hall.
Isabel turned and gave Rory an annoyed look.
“So, can we talk about the guy who snuck into my room last night?” Rory began. “The one I took the blame for?”
Isabel’s expression betrayed nothing.
“I was just curious if you have a reaction,” she said.
“Thanks,” Isabel said in a toneless voice. “Is that what you want me to say? Thank you so, so much for covering for me? And just so you know, I had no idea you were staying there. And I wouldn’t call it ‘your room.’ It’s the guest room. And you are a guest.” She turned back to the stairs.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t mind if I got kicked out of here, but I need to be here,” Rory said. “I’m sorry if you have a problem with that.”
“I don’t have a problem,” Isabel said over her shoulder. She stomped up the staircase, out of sight. A door closed upstairs.
Rory took a deep breath, clenching her hands into fists. For the first time she understood the impulse to punch something. This girl was terrible. She was a snob. She was spoiled. And she had absolutely no scruples, whatsoever. From now on Rory would do whatever she could to avoid her. She’d also try to convince Bianca and Fee that she wasn’t clueless, reckless, or immature enough to ask guys to sneak into her room, though she doubted that was possible now.
When she walked back into the kitchen, Fee was gone. She looked around at the shiny counters and glistening appliances and felt the sudden urge to flee. She needed some fresh air. And then she remembered the beach. She still hadn’t even seen it. We don’t stand on ceremony, Mr. Rule had said. And yet, she got the distinct impression that the staff at this house didn’t spend too much time sunning themselves on the Rules’ private strip of sand.
She walked out of the house, through the rose garden, and out onto the flagstone patio. At the far end, past the two pools and the line of chaise longues with spotless white cushions, an American flag snapped in the breeze. She walked toward the flag until the grayish-blue ocean came into view. Feeling excited, she followed a pathway of wooden planks that led over some grassy dunes, down to the sand. She slid off her flip-flops. She couldn’t believe how clean it was down here. No beer cans or empty suntan-lotion bottles or even footprints. And there was nobody in sight on either side. It truly felt like her own private island.
It was low tide. Tiny birds waddled in the wet, suedelike sand. A wave gathered momentum and crashed. She walked to the edge, and an icy span of water covered her feet. She turned and looked at the chimneys and dormer windows of the mansion next door, just visible over the dunes. Did that family ever come down to the beach? Did any of them ever get outside their own heads to notice any of this? Why did the Rules belong to a country club when they had this all to themselves? Someone like Isabel Rule obviously didn’t appreciate this house, but she wondered if any of the Rules did.
After countless minutes of staring at the ocean, she turned back. Bianca was probably looking for her. She climbed up the sun-warmed planks, feeling the burn in her hamstrings and a strong sense of defeat. No doubt Bianca was still going to be a little disgusted with her. She’d have to brace herself for another lecture.
When she arrived at the patio, she saw that it was no longer deserted. A swimmer cut through the surface of the lap pool, doing a perfect crawl.
It was a guy—that much she could see. Connor Rule, she thought. The swimmer. Had to be. She slipped on her flip-flops and set off across the flagstones, hoping to walk right by him. Then she heard the chime of a cell phone. She spied the iPhone lying on one of the cushioned chaises, right next to a fluffy towel and a burgundy sweatshirt. She looked back at the swimmer, still doing his crawl. Before she really knew what she was doing, she’d picked up the phone and walked back to the pool.
“Um, excuse me?” she called out. “Your phone! It’s ringing!”
The swimmer darted his head up from the water. Goggles looked back at her. “What?”
“Your phone!” she said.
He swam to the side of the pool, and she leaned over to hand it to him. But their hands didn’t quite meet. A moment later, there was a soft plunk. She watched his phone sink straight to the bottom of the pool.
“Oh my god,” she said.
Without a word, he dove down, retrieved the phone, and swam back to the surface.
“Oh my god… I’m so… I’m so sorry,” she said.
He didn’t hear her. With a splash of water and a ripple of triceps, the guy hoisted himself out of the pool and got to his feet. For a moment, Rory thought he was naked, but then she saw his navy Speedo. His very tiny navy Speedo.
“No worries,” he said, whipping off his goggles. “I was getting sick of it anyway.”
“I’m so sorry,” she repeated. “That was so clumsy of—”
“Really, don’t worry about it,” he said, running a hand over his wet hair. “I’m Connor, by the way. And you are—”
“Rory.”
“Right,” he said. He put out his hand, and she shook it, trying not to be too taken by his greenish-blue eyes. “My mom said you’re staying with us for the summer.” He tossed the phone on the chaise as if it was already forgotten and grabbed a towel. “How’s it going so far?”
The same nerves she’d felt in front of Steve were amplified a thousand times by the sight of blond, tan Connor Rule in his very tiny Speedo. “Good. Except for all the phones I’ve thrown in the pool,” she joked.
“Well, like I said,” he said, drying his shoulders, “you’ve just done me a big favor.”
“Oh yeah? Why?”
“It’s just nice to get a little break once in a while,” he said. “I don’t always like being reachable.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” she said.
“Oh yeah?” he asked. “Is there someone you’d like to avoid?”
“Sometimes, yeah.”
“So who’s that?” he asked, and he actually sounded as if he really wanted to know.
She thought about telling him the truth and then decided against it. “Nobody you know,” she said.
He smiled as he dropped the towel on the chaise. “My mom drives me nuts, too,” he said.
Rory laughed.
“So I was right, huh?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” she said. She felt the flutter of something electric and unsaid pass between them, a type of connection being made. This guy wasn’t just cute. He was funny and nice and easy to talk to. Almost on instinct, she stepped back toward the house. “Thanks for being so cool about the phone. I’m sorry again.”
“No problem,” he said, snapping on his goggles. “Next time I’ll make sure everything’s nailed down out here.”
She laughed again and then hurried back to the house, feeling like she was being watched. Turned out, she was.
“We need you to go to Dreesen’s,” Bianca said in a sour voice when Rory walked back into the house.
“Sure thing,” Rory said. “I’ll just get my bag.”
“And another thing,” Bianca said. “Staff aren’t supposed to be down at the beach after nine. Or on the patio.”
Before Rory could respond, Bianca turned and walked back to the kitchen.
CHAPTER SIX
There were only so many times that you could read a text before you went crazy, Isabel thought as she looked down at her phone under the table.
Hey Beautiful. Had to bolt. Maybe we hang this week?
She scrolled down to her reply, which she’d sent a strategic seventy-five minutes later:
Definitely.
That had been yesterday morning, and she still hadn’t heard from him. Had it been the word definitely? The smiley face? It was probably the smiley face, she thought. She’d have to dial it down next time. Mike could probably tell how much she
liked him.
Just two nights ago, she’d been sitting next to him in the car, laughing and listening to music, and holding his hand as if their mutual attraction was an assured, understood thing. He’d wanted to kiss her. She was positive of that. And she’d been so close to it. And now, she had no idea if she was ever going to see him again, let alone kiss him.
“Put the phone away,” her father said from across the breakfast table. “You’re going to see everyone at the club in a couple of hours.”
“It’s not someone from the club,” she said.
“Isabel,” he said in a warning voice, and she put the phone facedown on the table with a sigh. Family breakfast on Monday morning was one of her family’s more torturous summer rituals. Her dad had started it as a way to spend more time with them before he drove into the city for the week, but all it did was make everyone edgy and tense with its feeling of forced togetherness. Isabel would have much preferred sleeping in.
“Good morning!” said her mom as she and Sloane walked into the breakfast room. Her mom liked to stay in her yoga clothes for as long as possible after a lesson, the better to show off her toned figure. Sloane, on the other hand, always changed into one of her shapeless tunics and Capri pants immediately. Sloane had been in a battle with the same ten pounds ever since seventh grade, and all these years later, she seemed no closer to victory. Most of the time, Isabel wished her sister would just accept her body shape and find something more interesting to do with her time than diet.
“We had a fantastic class,” her mom said, taking her usual seat. A copy of the New York Times had been left on her place mat as always, along with a glass of thick green vegetable juice. “What a beautiful day,” she said, taking a sip from her glass.
“They said it’s going to be almost ninety,” Sloane said, digging into a sectioned grapefruit, which she ate every morning. “First heat wave of the summer.”
Isabel rolled her eyes. Her sister was so lame.
“I think we’ll stop by the Sagaponack place on our way into the city,” her father said. “Can’t hurt to just show our faces.”
“If you want to,” her mother said.
“Plus the old guy likes Gregory,” her father said.
“He’s just not scared of me the way he is of you,” Gregory said.
“Well, that sounds wonderful.” Her mom opened her newspaper and began to read as if they weren’t even there.
“You know, a little enthusiasm wouldn’t hurt,” her father said. “Especially for sixteen million.”
“But I don’t want to sell this house,” her mother replied, her eyes on the paper. “I’ve told you that. A hundred times.”
“Right,” her father said. “You want to worry about the old plumbing and the beach erosion and the historical-preservation people on our backs all the time—”
“Yes, I do,” her mother said.
“Why are you so attached to this house? It’s a money pit. All the renovations, all the landscaping—”
“It’s mine,” her mother said, with a finality that made her father push his chair back from the table with a loud screech.
“Greg? You ready?”
Isabel studied the untouched stack of pancakes on her plate. She hadn’t missed any of her parents’ bickering. Now she had three more months of it to endure.
Gregory put down his fork and stood up, like the dutiful son he’d been since birth. “No problem,” he said.
Gregory started working for their dad’s company the day after he graduated from Harvard, and a year later, he seemed right on track to turn into Lawrence Rule in every way, shape, and form. Isabel could just picture him in twenty years: married to a wife who couldn’t stand him and the father of four kids he desperately wanted to be friends with but didn’t know how to be.
Sloane was slightly better-looking than Gregory, but she wasn’t the type to go into the family business (or any kind of business, for that matter), and therefore got much less of their dad’s attention. But their father, Gregory, and Sloane seemed to form a little triad, and their common bond and purpose was Isabel—what to do with her, how to control her, how to punish her. She’d noticed this for the first time last summer, after all that business with the fire. Sloane had suggested they send Isabel away to a school in Denver where they put kids in solitary for a night if they broke any rules. Gregory had suggested one of those places that kidnap kids in the middle of the night to take them to a wilderness survival camp. And her dad had gone ahead and paid tuition for her first year at school in California before her mom had even agreed to it. Most of the time, Isabel couldn’t believe that she was related to the three of them in the slightest. At least she had Connor, but for some reason he didn’t feel the same utter dislike she felt toward their oldest siblings. But then again, Connor got along with everybody. She would have to teach him how to be much more of a jerk. Girls were always walking all over him.
“Have a good week,” her mother said languidly as her father exited the room.
Gregory walked over and leaned down to give her a kiss on the cheek. “See you Friday, Mom.”
“Good-bye, honey,” she said. “Work hard.”
As they walked out, Isabel felt the urge to leave, too. She always felt like this after her parents had a fight. Maybe she could just borrow the car and go find Mike’s farm stand near Wainscott. It wouldn’t exactly be stalking, because it was probably right on the highway.
“So, what are we all going to do today?” her mom asked brightly. “Go to the club? Or go shopping?”
“I heard there’s a sale at Lilly Pulitzer,” Sloane said.
“Sounds fascinating,” Isabel muttered.
A curly-haired brunette with a perky smile came into the room carrying a bowl of wild blueberries. Isabel assumed that this was the new chef. She never bothered to learn their names—they never stayed very long. “How does everything taste out here?” she asked as she placed the bowl in front of Mrs. Rule.
“Everything’s wonderful, Erica,” her mom said, barely meeting her eye. “Could you send Bianca out here, please?”
“Sure,” she said. Isabel could see the worry creeping into Erica’s smile.
She left, and Bianca entered the room. “Yes?” she asked.
“Bianca, would you please let Erica know that from now on, I will speak to her about the food after we’ve finished eating?”
“Of course,” Bianca demurred.
“And did FedEx come yet?”
“Yes, I’ll have them brought out,” Bianca said, and slipped out again.
“Mom, can I borrow the Prius?” Isabel asked. “Just for, like, an hour. I’ll bring it right back.”
“No,” her mom said, sounding annoyed, spooning some Greek yogurt into her bowl of blueberries.
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t have your license.”
“But I know how to drive,” Isabel assured her.
“Um, no, you don’t,” Sloane put in. “You almost drove us right off a cliff in Vail over spring break.”
“Because someone gave me wrong directions,” Isabel countered. “Plus, I need to practice for my next test.”
“Not by yourself,” her mom said.
Isabel glanced at Connor.
“No way, Iz,” Connor said, holding up his hands. “I tried. You won’t listen to me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Sorry, but I’m not gonna do it anymore,” Connor said.
“Well, if nobody’s going to give me lessons,” Isabel said, “then how am I going to pass the stupid test?”
Rory entered, FedEx envelopes in her hands. She still looked terrified, or at least robotic, and she avoided all eye contact with Isabel as she carried the letters over to Mrs. Rule. “Here you go,” Rory said, handing her the FedEx letters.
“Thank you, Rory,” Isabel’s mother said. “How’s everything going? Is everything all right?”
“It’s great,” Rory said, her eyes on the floor.
&n
bsp; Isabel saw her steal a glance at Connor—or was it at her?—and then look away.
“Tell me, you have your driver’s license, right?”
Rory looked up. “Uh, yes.”
“Then maybe you could give Isabel some driving lessons.”
Isabel almost bolted out of her seat. “That’s a really bad idea.”
“Why?” Her mom turned back to Rory. “You passed your driver’s test on the first try, right?”
“Right,” Rory said, swallowing hard.
“Well, there you go, she’s obviously good at this—”
“But she just got her license. She’s not even allowed to teach me how to drive,” Isabel said. “Legally.”
“I seriously doubt that’s going to be a problem,” her mom said, ripping open one of the envelopes. “As long as she knows what to do. Rory will give you lessons in the car a few times a week until you’re ready to take your driver’s test. That’s fine with you, isn’t it, Rory?”
Rory’s face was so pale by now that Isabel thought she might be sick. “Uh, sure,” she said.
“What if it’s not fine with me?” Isabel asked.
Her mom glowered at Isabel.
“Whatever,” Isabel muttered. She looked back at Rory’s pale face. She’d be at Mike’s farm stand in no time.
After breakfast, Rory sat in the passenger seat of the Prius, trying not to let her palms get sweaty as Isabel sped down the center of Lily Pond Lane. The two girls still hadn’t spoken. It had been obvious how Isabel felt about this arrangement, and Rory didn’t blame her. But she needed to say something before Isabel managed to get them on the highway again.
“So, how about we try a three-point turn?” she asked nicely.
“You’re not a driving teacher,” Isabel said. “Just thought I should remind you.”
“I know,” Rory said. “Your mom asked me to do this.”
Isabel threw her a disdainful look and then suddenly turned hard to the left and braked. They were inches away from the curb.
“Great,” Rory said, swallowing. “Now, put the car in reverse.”
Isabel yanked the gearshift up to reverse, revved the gas, and the car lurched backward.